We have interrupted evolution—not just biologically, but spiritually. We no longer remember how the human being unfolds. We sever the thread of time, and replace it with abstraction and control. But true evolution is not linear, not programmable.
The Severed I
Today all eyes are on “individuality”—that is, on a person, a personality, in its earthly form. The need to be recognized as this form—visible, nameable, affirmed—is now absolute. In such a view, the soul is reduced to a surface image. Individuality is no longer a mystery in becoming, but a construct of the brain. The brain, then, becomes sacred: seat of consciousness, arbiter of selfhood, gatekeeper of life and death. When the brain ceases activity, the person is “gone”—no longer when the heart stops, as once held.
The brain is indeed seen as very important, because the brain is considered to be the seat of consciousness. And individuality and personality are seen as brain functions, which require to be recognized and "respected" as such. Wasn't after all the brain a criteria to determine whether a person was dead or not, there where not so long it was a matter of the heart to indicate if a person had passed, or not? In any case, through such and other existential questions, humanity has arrived at an unseen, yet immense threshold. While are we not at the point of starting to find it normal, to physically alter a woman, so as to become a man, and vice versa. Even, already children from a very young age seem to experience this mismatch, between core and physicality.
This shift reveals an unseen yet immense threshold: we no longer know what a human being is.
The outer vessel is mistaken for the essence.
And where this mismatch is sensed—especially by children—a solution is sought in altering the vessel. Rather than asking what the “core” actually is, we instead reshape the surface to match what we feel it should be. But that core is not a psychological impression, nor a neural network—it is a spiritual being, with memory, task, karma, and becoming.
In Waldorf understanding, even childhood illnesses are sometimes the soul’s attempt to reshape the body—to refine the vessel, so that it may fit the incarnating individuality. The subtle interplay between core and sheath is deeply disturbed by our modern world: by processed food, by premature intellectualism, by parental expectations, and above all by a lack of reverent perception. Children are not seen. They are managed. Diagnosed. Directed. Or ignored. We no longer look toward the soul and the individual core, namely the "I" as something becoming; we look for dysfunction, performance, identity.
This failure of perception is the real crisis.
The Broken Thread
So it is that even in our approach to children, humanity betrays its deeper self.
We mean well—but we act from a flawed lens, and thereby cause unseen harm.
The human being, no longer understood, is now at risk of losing itself.
Transhumanism offers radical solutions—genetic modification, neural interfaces, synthetic reproduction. But these “fixes” are applied to a being whose true nature is not even remotely grasped. Science acts as redeemer, yet does not know what it redeems. And so, unknowingly, it becomes the destroyer.
This is the gaping hole:
Humanity has fallen out of its own stream of becoming.
We have interrupted evolution—not just biologically, but spiritually. We no longer remember how the human being unfolds. We sever the thread of time, and replace it with abstraction and control. But true evolution is not linear, not programmable. It contains thresholds—crises meant to initiate transformation. If these are not crossed consciously, they become traumas that seal us off. When an initiation is missed, the soul hardens. And when this happens collectively, we enter an era where meaning itself collapses.
The old mythologies knew this.
They spoke of the Fall—not as moral guilt, but as necessary descent. A severing from the divine, so that the “I” could awaken in freedom. But this severing was never meant to be permanent.
There was to be a second birth.
A moment of remembering.
But what if the second birth never comes?
What if the rupture is never healed?
Then the being dies in separation.
Or worse: is reprogrammed in that state—sealed into a synthetic future.
The Redeeming Thread
And yet, this rupture—this missed initiation—can be healed. But not by returning to old forms, or clinging to past wholes. Redemption lies in perceiving again what was lost, from within the experience of loss itself.
It requires that we suffer the gaping hole—without fleeing it.
That we name the brokenness—without numbing or projecting.
To redeem a real initiation, one must enter the darkness not with judgment, but with quiet perception.
Not to explain it, or to master it, but to behold it.
To say: “This, too, was part of my becoming.”
Only then can the thread reappear—not from the past, but from the future.
It comes quietly, as a task. As a moment of recognition. As a gesture toward another soul.
And in that gesture, something returns:
The forgotten thread.
The true self—not the image, but the one who passed through death, and did not abandon love.
This is the new initiation.
It begins not in power, but in the vulnerable act of seeing.
